It Starts With T
by Webster
Summary: Sam's allergies are acting up.  Unfortunately, he has a little trouble measuring the medicine.  Sleepy, sneezy Sam.  Enjoy!


They're pretty sure it's a werewolf they're hunting, but after a solid week of searching, they've given up on finding any decent clues, other than the fact that it always appears in Colonial Park shortly after moonrise. With no leads on the wolf's daylight identity, they've decided to wait another three days for the next full moon and then stake out the park.

Which is why it's really not that big a deal when Sam starts sneezing his face off at the bar.

Dean just leads Sam out to the car and grabs the Benadryl. All they have this time is a children's liquid, but it should still work. "It says one spoon for little kids and two for bigger kids, so figure four for adults." He tosses the bottle to Sam, digs around in the medical kit a bit more and finds some sort of measuring device. Sam drinks it down right there in the parking lot before heading back in.

Half an hour later, Sam is slumping down in his seat and still sneezing like crazy.

"Maybe it isn't an allergy," Dean points out.

"It's allergic," Sam replies, words a little blurred. "Was getting a little hivey."

"I don't think that's a word, Sam."

"Course it is, I just said it." He snickers, sniffles wetly. "Hivey. Meds took care of that, though." He sneezes again, muffled into his sleeve.

"Where?"

"Whaddya mean where? Right here!"

"No, where are you hive…" Dean trickles off. It's not worth it, and hivey still isn't a word. The bigger question is, why is Sam so stoned? He's not feverish, and he's still on his first beer, so he isn't drunk, which means…

"Sam?"

Another muffled giggle. "Yeah?"

"How much Benadryl did you take?"

"Four spoons, like you said." Sam turns his head over his shoulder and sneezed again.

"Teaspoons or tablespoons?"

"Starts with T," Sam mumbles.

Given that the label insists the medicine should be measured in teaspoons, Dean figures Sam used the wrong one. Which means he's probably taken three times the normal adult dose.

"Well," Dean says slowly, "You're about twice the weight of whoever they probably based the doses on. And it's pretty hard to die of a Benadryl overdose, anyway. But don't think you're getting the car keys tonight. Or the pool cue."

Sam looks ready to take root, there in the corner of the booth. His nose is starting to turn pink from rubbing napkins against it, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"Stay put," Dean orders, then heads up to pay for their meal. It's probably best to get Sam back to the room before he actually falls asleep, because Sam is freaking heavy, and asking the bouncer to help carry him to the car could be embarrassing.

Luckily, it appears that Sam is perfectly capable of walking, as long as Dean keeps him pointed in the right direction. And supplied with enough napkins.

* * *

><p>Once he deposits Sam on the bed, Dean realizes he's going to have to go out again, soon. The sniffling is not letting up, despite the Benadryl overdose, which means Sam's going to need some real tissues if he doesn't want a burned nose. And if he's still suffering in the morning, he'll want more antihistamines. The <em>non-drowsy<em> kind.

So, Dean's going to have to hit a store before they all close. He switches on the TV, orders his brother to stay put. Sam's slumped on the bed like a puddle, glaze eyed and quiet, so staying put shouldn't be too much of a challenge.

Finding a couple boxes of good tissues and a pack of antihistamines isn't much of a challenge, either. But when he gets back to the motel, he finds his brother standing outside, leaning against the door.

"What the hell are you doing out here?"

"Wanted t' see if you were coming," Sam mumbles, inspecting his shoes. "Got locked out."

"Okay, Sammy. Well, lucky for you, I actually grabbed my key before leaving the room."

Sam holds his hand up. There's a motel key in it.

"Key didn't fiiiit." He scrubbed at his nose again, this time with his jacket sleeve.

Dean shakes his head. "First of all, that's gross and makes you look like a six year old. Second, I told you to stay put."

"Put." Sam echoes, giggling.

Gently, Dean pulls him off the door and leans him against the wall so he can open the door without dumping his stoned brother on the floor. For the second time, he guides Sam on to a bed. This time, he turns back the blankets and removes Sam's shoes. As a final precaution against wandering, Dean engages the security chain. Once Sam is sober enough to work that, he should be sober enough to go out.

Obediently, Sam slides into the bed, blows his nose a couple times. A few minutes later, he's out snoring softly from the congestion.

Sam will be fine. The drugs should wear off by morning, and the allergy attack should stop once they blow town, it almost always does. But the deep, peaceful sleep on his brother's face is something Dean sees far too seldom.

It's a long, long time before Dean turns out the lights and follows him into sleep.


End file.
